


Just Inches

by MsLadySmith



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canon Divergence - His Last Vow, Major Character Injury, Minor Violence, Other, Paralysis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-22
Updated: 2017-10-22
Packaged: 2019-01-21 05:29:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12450576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsLadySmith/pseuds/MsLadySmith
Summary: FB Writing Prompt: What if Sherlock had been permanently disabled by the bullet?Mary shoots Sherlock in S3E3: His Last Vow.  What if her shot didn't hit him where she intended?





	Just Inches

"Oh, Sherlock, if you take one more step, I swear I will kill you."

"No, Mrs. Watson. You won't."

Taking advantage of the distraction Sherlock was so graciously providing, Magnussen shifted and sprung, tackling Mary from behind just as she squeezed the trigger.

She missed her intended target by just inches.  Surgical precision... failure.

Sherlock looked down, his mind frantically trying to process the bullet wound. His legs turned to jelly, and he crumpled to the floor.

"Dammit." Mary swore, scrambling back to her feet. She swung around, hitting Magnussen hard with her pistol, knocking him unconscious. Then she returned her focus to Sherlock.

Grabbing her phone, she dialed 999. A woman came on the line. "Emergency. Which service do you require?"

"We need an ambulance. Someone has been shot." She gave them the address, and disconnected the call.

She pulled off her knit cap, using it to staunch the blood flow of Sherlock's wound. John appeared in the room, breathless from having run up the three flights of stairs. He stopped short, taking in the scene. "What the hell happened here?" he asked Mary as he rushed to Sherlock's side.

"Sherlock's been shot. "

"I can see that, Mary. Who shot him?" John looked around the room again. Magnussen was laying several feet away, unconscious but breathing. Since John had only heard a single gunshot, he assumed that Magnussen had not been shot, but knocked out. Then he looked at Mary - dressed in all black, wearing body armor, and a gun laying next to her. He looked into her eyes, anger bubbling to the surface. "YOU?"

Mary looked away from her husband, guilt written all over her face.

John shook his head, then stiffened, flipping into Captain Watson mode. "Later. Right now, we save this patient, Nurse Morstan." His Army medical training took over, stamping out the emotions roiling through him.

"Sherlock! Sherlock, can you hear me?" Sherlock's eyes opened at the sound of John's voice, but he couldn't focus.

Paramedics were suddenly beside them, and Mary stepped back out of the way.  John slipped the oxygen mask over Sherlock's face.  "Sherlock, we're losing you.  Stay with us, Sherlock..."

John helped the emergency medical personnel load him gently but quickly into the ambulance, and they allowed him to ride with Sherlock to the hospital.

* * *

The dim, rhythmic beeping of machines came to his attention. He felt bandages around him, and IVs in his arms, and a screaming pain in his abdomen. Groggily, he opened his eyes and looked around the room. Sitting in the chair next to his bed was John, his chin tucked into his chest as he lightly snored.

"John," Sherlock called to him weakly, and John's eyes flew open.

"Sherlock!" John reached out and took Sherlock's hand, squeezing it gently. Sherlock smiled faintly, and gripped John's hand in return. John looked relieved.

"How long...?" Sherlock asked, trying to clear the fog in his mind.

"You've been sedated for about a week. They had you on a ventilator."

Sherlock nodded. _That explains the sore throat._ "Thirsty."

John picked up a spoonful of ice chips. "Just ice chips for now. Let them melt on your tongue - it helps." Sherlock took the chips gratefully.

"John, Mary shot me."

"Yes, I know. She also dialed the ambulance, and helped me stabilize you until they arrived. Magnussen's security team held her until the police arrived to arrest her."

"I'm sorry, John..."

"Hopefully, the courts will take her assistance into account during sentencing. But she will definitely be going to prison for a long time." John smiled wryly. "Which is probably safer for her than being out of prison, where Mycroft can get hold of her."

Sherlock started to chuckle, and winced in pain.

"Easy, there. Maybe want to up the morphine?"

"No more morphine." Given Sherlock's predilection for the drug, he didn't want to end up abusing the morphine privileges just because of some silly bullet wound. "I'll be all right."

There was a cursory knock at the door, and a doctor walked in.

"I see the patient is awake. Mr. Holmes, I am Dr. Evans. I am the surgeon who took care of you when you arrived. How are you feeling?"

"Hello, doctor. I am bit sore."

Dr. Evans laughed.  "I expect you are.  Well, I'm sure Dr. Watson can help you with pain medications if you need them. Let's go over a couple of things."

He checked Sherlock's bandages, making a note for the nursing staff to change them before the next shift change. "The gunshot did a fair amount of damage, most of which we were able to repair. The bullet fragmented on impact, but we were able to find it all. You had a small laceration on your liver, but we were able to stop the bleeding. We did have to remove your spleen. There's the obvious muscle damage from the entry wound - that is likely a significant source of pain for you right now."

He then uncovered Sherlock's legs, periodically touching them and asking if he could feel the touches. Much to Sherlock's rising concern, he was not able to feel anything in his lower extremities. The doctor turned a little more serious. "And lastly, you've suffered a thoracic spine injury. A bullet fragment lodged near your T9 and T10 vertebrae. We were able to remove it, and tried to repair some of the damage, but it appears to have resulted in the loss of sensation and movement in your legs. Unfortunately, that damage is likely to be permanent."

Sherlock and John sat silently, processing the information that Dr. Evans had just given them.

"I will never walk again?" Sherlock asked.

"It will be some time before we can make that final determination, but yes, it looks that way. I'm sorry."

Dr. Evans closed the file, and looked at the two men. "I need to continue my rounds, but if you need anything, buzz the nursing station. They can get hold of me if needed."

John stood up, and reached out to shake Dr. Evans hand. "Thank you, doctor. We will."

* * *

Sherlock commented matter-of-factly, "Well, I can't return to Baker Street. I'm obviously not going to be walking up stairs any time soon."

John looked at him incredulously. "THAT'S the first thing you think of?"

"John, I need to move forward. Wallowing in self-pity is not productive."

"Well," John raked his fingers through his hair nervously, "you can come live with me. I can set you up in the spare bedroom on the main level.  That way neither of us has to live alone," John sighed.

Sherlock saw sadness wash over John's face. "What about you and Mary? I know she's going to prison, but -"

"Your brother has been quite helpful, and informative. It seems everything I thought I knew about the woman I married was a lie. He was able to push through paperwork to get the marriage annulled on the grounds of fraud."

"I'm glad. Well, not glad about the annulment, but glad he was able to be of assistance to you."

John stood up and stretched. "Speaking of Mycroft, I need to go call your brother and give him an update. If he asks, are you up for another visitor?"

"I suppose I could bear his presence for a brief time." Sherlock tried to sound irritated, but the look in his eyes told John he would be pleased to see his brother.

"OK, I think I'm going to head home and sleep in a bed. That chair is not nearly as comfortable as it looks," John smiled half-heartedly. "I will see you tomorrow morning." With that, John walked out of the room.

Sherlock retreated to his mind. _Paraplegic. Everything is going to change._

* * *

Mycroft knocked lightly on the door. "Come," Sherlock responded sleepily.

"Good morning, brother mine. Dr. Watson told me you were willing to allow a brief visit this morning."

"Yes, thank you, Mycroft. Did John give you a full report?"

"He did. I am making arrangements to have your belongings moved from 221B to John's flat as soon as I leave here, as well as having any medically necessary items you might require delivered there."

"You mean a wheelchair," Sherlock frowned.

"Yes, among other things you need."

Mycroft sat on the edge of the bed and spoke softly to his brother. "This will be a long road for you both, Sherlock. I know you will fight to regain some semblance of independence, but remember, it won't happen overnight. Dr. Watson has never had to be a full-time caretaker of someone who was unable to care for himself. You will both need patience."

Sherlock nodded.

"And as much as you hate asking me for help, know that I am here for you to ask, any time you need it. John is also aware."

Sherlock's face softened. "I know, dear brother. And though I would never publicly admit it, I do appreciate it."

Mycroft patted Sherlock's hand. "Understood, brother mine. Do get some rest. John told me he would be by in a few hours."

* * *

Sherlock remained under the care of Dr. Evans for the better part of the next month. While he thankfully regained bladder and bowel control, being able to stand or walk was still beyond his abilities, and according to Dr. Evans, was likely to remain so. The afternoon he was to be released into Dr. Watson's care, John helped him shave, bathe, and dress in a fresh suit of clothing from home, including his Belstaff. He looked a bit leaner, but aside from that, he could have just been sitting in a chair, ready to jump up and handle a case at a moment's notice.

"There is likely to be some press outside, Sherlock," John cautioned, "They've been hanging around Baker Street the whole time you've been here, and a few have even shown up at my flat hoping to catch a glimpse of you."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Just don't make me wear the damned hat. The wheelchair is hateful enough."

"OK, no hat, then," John laughed. "But you're going to have to get used to the wheelchair."

Sherlock slipped on his leather gloves. "I suppose. I'll drive, then," as he propelled the wheelchair down the hallway, with John trailing behind him carrying his remaining belongings.

The occupational therapist had been working with him to augment his upper body strength, so the trip to the waiting van that Mycroft had sent was not terribly taxing, but certainly exercise enough. John helped him into the van, and climbed in beside him. The driver threaded his way through the crowd of reporters - all dismayed that the genius hadn't spoken with them - and headed to John's flat. John noted that the street near his flat was empty. _Surely the work of Mycroft's security teams - keeping the media at a respectful distance for now._

As John walked up to the door, key at the ready, he was surprised by the door opening, to reveal Molly and Mrs. Hudson waiting for them. Sherlock's foul mood lifted as the women hugged him and got him situated, while John took the bags from the hospital to Sherlock's room. Molly offered to transfer Sherlock from the wheelchair to his chair, which Mycroft had thoughtfully brought from the Baker Street flat for him. At first, Sherlock was unsure, given how much taller and heavier he was than the diminutive woman, but Molly convinced him that she was perfectly capable of doing it, having learned how to do a patient transfer years ago in medical school. His chair was infinitely more comfortable than the wheelchair, at least, so he allowed her to try. He pushed the Belstaff off his shoulders, leaving it in the wheelchair, and with Molly's assistance, he was soon sitting comfortably in his chair.

John returned to the living room - now Sherlock's 'sitting room' - and Mrs. Hudson brought a tray of tea and biscuits (homemade chocolate biscuits, Sherlock's favorite) and proceeded to serve everyone. The four of them chatted and there was even some laughter, but after a while, John noticed Sherlock's dark mood returning. He tactfully suggested to the women that the visit needed to come to a close - his patient was tired, he explained. Molly and Mrs. Hudson nodded knowingly, and said their goodbyes, Mrs. Hudson planting a motherly kiss on Sherlock's forehead as she left. "Just because I'm not your landlady anymore doesn't mean you can ignore me, boys," she scolded playfully. "I expect phone calls, and visits."

"Yes, ma'am, " Sherlock and John replied in unison, which brought a smile to everyone in the room.

After the women left, the living room was silent again. Sherlock closed his eyes. "Your patient actually is a bit tired," he smiled slightly.

John nodded. "Time for bed, then? Shall I put you back in the wheelchair, or just drag you?" he grinned.

"I think the wheelchair would be kinder to your flooring," came the retort.

John transferred Sherlock back to the wheelchair smoothly. He took him to his bedroom, and helped him get ready for bed. As he was leaving the room, John stopped in the doorway and turned to him. "The occupational therapist is scheduled to arrive at 10am tomorrow. You will be seeing him at least three days a week, as I understand it."

"Oh, hurrah," came Sherlock's monotone response.

John crossed his arms. "Behave. If you want to regain any independence, you have a lot of work ahead of you. Nothing is going to be easy. I will help where I can, of course."

"I know. I don't have to like it, though," Sherlock huffed.

"OK, then. If you need anything, just yell. I will hear you from upstairs.  Or, if you prefer, you can text me."

"Fine. Good night, John."

"Good night, Sherlock." John turned out the lights and went upstairs.

* * *

The following week, John was in the kitchen, preparing lunch for the two of them, when his phone chirped.

**How's the patient? GL**

**Bored. Send help. JW**

It was true. Sherlock was getting bored, being mostly housebound - one can only read so many books and watch so much crap telly - and was beginning to get a bit stir-crazy. Which, in turn, was driving John a little batty.

**I'll be over in an hour. GL**

The hour passed quickly, both men having just finished their lunches when the doorbell rang. John sprang up and opened the door, to see Lestrade standing there with several files in his hands. _Cases. Perfect!_

Sherlock looked up from his book, and grinned widely when he saw the stack of files. "Good afternoon, Lestrade!" he said in an unnaturally cheerful voice.

As Greg sat down across from Sherlock, John gathered up the lunch dishes and headed to the kitchen.

"Hello, Sherlock. How goes it?" Greg asked.

"I suppose it goes well enough. John hasn't tried to smother me in my sleep yet," Sherlock grinned. He knew his own boredom was beginning to grate on John's nerves.

"Not that I haven't considered it," John yelled from the kitchen.

Greg laughed. "Yeah, I can imagine you've been a bit of a handful. I thought I'd bring over a few cases for you to look over. They're probably easy ones, but it's the best I could do on short notice."

John walked into the living room, drying his hands. "At this point, anything will help. You can come over any time with cases, Greg."

* * *

Greg, John, and Sherlock spent the afternoon poring over the stack of cases. None of them rated more than a 6, but at least some were marginally interesting, and Sherlock's insights helped Greg significantly. It was approaching dusk when they finished. The detective made Greg promise to come by with a new batch of cases at least weekly, to alleviate his boredom and to give John a much-needed respite from his whining. Greg agreed, and headed out.

"John, let's go for a walk. Or, in my case, a roll."

"Alright, let me get our coats."

Once they were suitably bundled up, the two of them left the flat, and headed toward the small neighborhood park up the road. Sherlock was managing under his own power for the most part, only needing help with curbs and particularly uneven sidewalks, where John pitched in. They arrived at a picnic table, and Sherlock pulled along side it and John sat down next to him. They sat quietly, watching the sun set over the horizon.

"Thank you, John," Sherlock said softly.

"What for?"

"For everything. You make me want to keep on living. I could have easily given up a hundred times, between the pain, the frustration, the bloody occupational therapist... but you keep me going. Thank you."

John blushed, and took Sherlock's hand. "It's what friends do, Sherlock," he sighed. "It's what friends do."


End file.
